Christmas Phantom
by A Study in Reichenbach Feels
Summary: John has been called back to Afghanistan and has been away a long time. Sherlock has secluded himself in the flat for ages and is miserable until he starts receiving Christmas gifts in a "12 Days of Christmas" fashion. Each gift increases in number and is left with a short poetic note. Will Sherlock figure out who this "Phantom" is before Christmas day, the big finale?
1. On the 1st Day of Christmas

**So here's how this is gonna work. Today is: 12 days until Christmas! Sherlock gets his first gift today! There'll be a short chapter added every day with the next gift Sherlock gets until Christmas Day. We're counting down the days until Christmas and until Sherlock meets his Christmas Phantom! **

**Hope you enjoy! :)**

* * *

"Who are you working for, Mrs. Hudson? Spit it out!"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Sherlock! I am not a part of anything." Mrs. Hudson seemed upset that he would even suggest such a thing.

Sherlock toned his voice down. "Sorry."

Mrs. Hudson silently accepted Sherlock's apology. "What are you going on about anyways? You've been making such a fuss all afternoon. Neighbors have been complaining." Mrs. Hudson sighed and added, "Again."

"I just can't get it!"

"What? Sherlock Holmes can't get something? Why hasn't London toppled over yet?"

"It doesn't make any sense!" Sherlock practically screamed. He yanked a note written on old paper off a brand new microscope on the living room table. Mrs. Hudson read it out loud.

"_Who am I? You will surely see._

_Patience, patience is the key._

_For twelve days these gifts you'll get,_

_You'll still not know my name, I bet._

_So be patient as you await _

_The golden prize-"_

"-On Christmas, late." Sherlock finished with her. "I _despise_ poetry!" he pouted and slumped onto the couch, curling into a ball.

"Oh come off it, Sherlock, this will be good for you!" Mrs. Hudson reasoned.

"How on Earth could this be good for me?" Sherlock mumbled.

"Well, what with John having to go back to Afghanistan and all, you've barely worked a single case! You've locked yourself in the flat for ages!"

"What's wrong with that?" Sherlock turned over to look at his landlady.

"Everything, Sherlock. It's just not healthy." Sherlock grumbled and flipped back over. Mrs. Hudson walked over to the shining new microscope on the table. "Besides, this is nice, isn't it? Little mystery gifts and all. You're lucky to have someone care about you that much." Another grumble. "Anyways, weren't you just complaining about your microscope the other day? Something about the zoom-"

"It's the lens, Mrs. Hudson, the lens is scratched." Sherlock corrected.

"See? You needed a new one. And you need a good activity for your brain. By God, it hasn't been put to much use lately." Mrs. Hudson scurried out the door, then called from the stairs. "Would you like a Christmas cookie? I must made some."

"Yes, thanks," Sherlock called back, eyeing the microscope suspiciously.

* * *

**Follow for all the gifts and a little update every day! **


	2. On the 2nd Day of Christmas

Sherlock observed the two new violin bows that had just arrived in a package at the door. The stick was mahogany and the bow hair was bright and tight. The bows were so perfectly Sherlock. His old bow he'd had since the university, but it was getting pretty beat up. After all, playing sad music on his violin was pretty much the only thing Sherlock ever did these days.

"Oh, are those from the mystery poet?" said Mrs. Hudson as she was delivering a bag of groceries into Sherlock's kitchen. He never went out for himself. Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson figured, would starve if it wasn't for her getting him food and reminding him to eat.

"Poet?"

"Well, yes. That note with the first gift was quite poetic, don't you think?"

"I suppose." Sherlock played with his new bows in a balancing act. "More riddles. Tormenting riddles."

"Is that a new one?" Mrs. Hudson picked up another old sheet of paper next to the opened package and read it.

"_Play your tunes, play them well_

_In solitary do not dwell._

_Play your tunes, play them loud_

_Find company in their sweet sound."_

"How did, well, whoever, know you'd need new bows?" Mrs. Hudson asked Sherlock, hoping he had figured out the mystery.

Sherlock sighed. "Haven't the slightest."

"Really?" Mrs. Hudson stammered.

"Yes, really." Sherlock admitted. "I don't know who this… Christmas phantom is."

"Christmas phantom?" Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "Is that what you're going to call him?"

"Seems to fit. The coward won't show his face until Christmas night. I'm sure he's enjoying watching me struggle to decipher his identity."

"Well," Mrs. Hudson walked to the flat's door. "I'm sure you'll think of it soon. Get some sleep, Sherlock." She closed the door behind her.

"Unlikely," Sherlock mumbled an unheard reply.

* * *

**On the second day of Christmas, my Phantom gave to me... 2 violin bows**


	3. On the 3rd Day of Christmas

"Sherlock, Lestrade is here with some boxes for you!" Mrs. Hudson called from the lobby. The door to 221B flung open and Sherlock flew down the creaking stairs. Lestrade nearly fell backwards into the freshly falling layer of snow outside as Sherlock dove into his face.

"Is it you?" Sherlock asked loudly.

"Is what me? What are you talking about, Sherlock?" Lestrade pushed Sherlock off him.

"Is it you sending me these gifts and infernal riddles? Are you the Christmas Phantom?" Sherlock shouted desperately.

"I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about." Lestrade stomped off his boots on the mat and closed the door behind him.

Sherlock glared for a moment, then eyed the three boxes Lestrade had set on the floor. There was another note on top of the stack. "Then why are you delivering this? Who are you working for?"

"Nobody." Lestrade said firmly. "I got an e-mail from the head of Scotland Yard-"

Sherlock scoffed, "Where you fired?"

"No! The e-mail told me to deliver these case files to you. Said he'd explain later. I'm just following orders." Lestrade looked back at the stack and wiped some dust off the top of it. "I'll tell you, these cases are long forgotten."

Sherlock picked up the note and smelled it. Nothing. Just some must. _Odd, _He thought. Sherlock eyed the ink closely. "Male, judging by the penmanship. And…" He felt the etching. "…it was written with a quill." Sherlock finished the phrase as a question, showing his own surprise.

"Why would someone use a quill for the note?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"More difficult to track a quill pen and ink. If it had been written with an ordinary pen, I could easily narrow down where the pen came from. He must have known that. How didn't I notice that before-" Sherlock droned out. He seemed to be reading the note.

"Well, read it out loud, for Pete's sake!" Mrs. Hudson scolded. "I want to hear it!"

"_The neglecting of these cases is quite a shame_

_And you love to play your little mind games._

_Solve these puzzles, their trail gone cold_

_And perhaps your brain won't grow too old."_

Lestrade nodded, confirmed what the note said. "These are three of the oldest murder cases on our file. No one has come close to solving them."

"Obviously." Sherlock sighed, looking at the ceiling. "Very well." Sherlock carried the boxes and the note upstairs and buried himself back into his flat.

* * *

**I had a scare with my laptop today, it wouldn't turn on or shut down...it was like stuck in between on and off. I was worried I wouldn't be able to give you guys the next chapter! :(**

**I fixed it, obviously. but that was really scary :(( **

**Hope you're enjoying the story!**


	4. On the 4th Day of Christmas

Mrs. Hudson's screaming woke Sherlock from his rare nap in the afternoon. He draped his sheet around him and grabbed the tea he had been drinking before he fell asleep. The tea was still hot; Sherlock hadn't slept for long. He dashed downstairs to see what was the matter.

"Sherlock, what on _Earth…_" Mrs. Hudson whimpered and hid behind Sherlock's towering figure. She pointed towards the four large, wooden boxes in the lobby. Sherlock stepped forward and looked into the package Mrs. Hudson had opened up. Inside there was a corpse. Sherlock held himself from laughing. Poor Mrs. Hudson.

"Why did you open my mail?" Sherlock uttered steadily.

"Well, I saw you were napping and I couldn't help my curiosity." Mrs. Hudson collapsed onto the bottom step. Sherlock offered her his tea. "Thank you, dear." Mrs. Hudson, accepting the tea.

Sherlock wandered back to today's mystery. Faithfully, there was the note.

"_Bustle, bustle all about_

_You've solved those cases, I have no doubt._

_These bodies mightl give her a fright,_

_But they might show you to a light."_

"Well what the devil is that supposed to mean?" Mrs. Hudson huffed.

"It's obvious," Sherlock explained. "They're for me to use for experiments."

"By god, I've never seen such a Christmas present, if you can even call it that!"

Sherlock smiled with radiant eyes as he let Mrs. Hudson's droning about the smell and questions she'd get from the other tenants fade away. Whoever this phantom was, Sherlock now knew for sure this was a friendly gesture. Sherlock's presents made him think. _Isn't that a present in and of itself?_

* * *

**_*sings* On the fourth day of Christmas, my phantom gave to me.. 4 corpses for experiments :D_**

**_Are you all enjoying so far? :3_**


	5. On the 5th Day of Christmas

Sherlock squat in his chair with the newest of his gifts. Day five. This mystery giver was just that: a mystery. Even to the grand Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock sighed loudly and pulled the cigarette he was holding from his pink lips. He heard Mrs. Hudson's footsteps behind the door.

"Sherlock? Has it come yet today?"

"Mm." He grunted. Mrs. Hudson stepped into the flat and choked on the cigarette smoke. She waved her hand in front of her face.

"Sherlock, you're smoking up the entire flat! The alarm will go off!" Mrs. Hudson grabbed the daily newspaper off the fireplace mantle and started batting at the vaporous fumes. Sherlock rolled his eyes and promptly strode to the window, ignoring the back of his chair. He gazed out for a time, taking periodic doses of nicotine.

"What's the day…?" Mrs. Hudson wondered. "It's… the fifth in your little game. He couldn't think of anything better to give you then more nicotine?"

"Better?" Sherlock smiled down at Baker Street. "What's better than that?"

"Well, one's fine, maybe. But five?"

Sherlock kept his gaze out the window. "This way I don't have to dive into my pipe right away. I was trying to save that until Christmas."

"Whatever you say, dear. Where's the note?" Sherlock pointed to the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson walked into the messy kitchen and found the note amid the clutter.

_Although it isn't good for you,_

_There's nothing I can really do._

_Nicotine was always your thing,_

_Enjoy before the angels sing._

"If he knows you this well, wouldn't he want you to stop smoking?" Mrs. Hudson asked Sherlock.

"If he knows me this well," Sherlock broke from the window and turned to face his landlady. "He knows I won't."

* * *

**"Thank you for smoking." XD **


	6. On the 6th Day of Christmas

Sherlock laid motionless on the couch, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's calls.

"Sherlock, I know you can hear me. Come down here right now!" Sherlock's landlady called out from below. Sherlock grunted and pounded down the stairs, pouting all the way.

"If I yelled any more, I might have lost my voice. Won't you listen next time?" Mrs. Hudson scolded the messy-haired detective. He grunted and accepted the coffee she offered him. "You have some mail."

Sherlock's eyes brightened. "From him?"

Mrs. Hudson shrugged. "Well, I don't know. I'm not supposed to open people's mail."

"Didn't stop you with the bodies…" Sherlock mumbled. "Where is it?"

Mrs. Hudson handed her tenant six thick envelopes. "Right here."

Sherlock observed them, whispering to himself what he saw. "There's six of them. It's from the Phantom..."

"Well open it up, then." Mrs. Hudson interrupted his ramblings impatiently. Sherlock ripped open the top envelope and pulled out a stack of papers inside.

"What is it?" Mrs. Hudson asked eagerly. She took the next few and opened them. Sherlock rolled his eyes and trudged back up the stairs, heading for his familiar couch.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson followed. "These are Mensa International applications! All six envelopes!"

"And?"

"They know about you. They want you to apply!"

"No, Mrs. Hudson. This is a joke. From my Christmas Phantom." Sherlock collapsed back into the couch.

Mrs. Hudson was set aback, but set the applications on the coffee table beside him. "It seemed more like a compliment than a joke." She returned downstairs.

Sherlock turned to face the back of the couch and hide his flush cheeks.

* * *

**Mensa International, according to wikipedia, is the largest and oldest high IQ society in the world. It is a non-profit organization open to people who score at the 98th percentile or higher on a standardized, supervised IQ or other approved intelligence test. **

**Basically, the Phantom just implied that Sherlock should apply to the Genius Society. :)**

**Thanks to Rachel for suggesting this when I was looking for ideas for the gifts a few weeks ago. :3 **


	7. On the 7th Day of Christmas

"What sort of a man does that? It's simply deplorable!" Sherlock criticized his seventh present.

Mrs. Hudson poked around in the basket of scones Sherlock had received at the doorstep that morning. She counted seven of them. "It is rather odd," she agreed.

"Honestly, who sends scones without tea? And to make matters worse, we're out of it." Sherlock stewed at the window.

"Why don't you go out and buy some?"

"Boring." He approached the chair and perched on it.

"Well it seems a shame to waste them, they look delicious."

Sherlock paid no attention to her encouragement. "It's incomplete…" he mumbled to himself as if he were unaware of her presence. "All the others before this were complete…this must have another part…"

Mrs. Hudson sighed and, while Sherlock continued to converse with himself, picked up the latest note on the stack Sherlock made.

_You're probably hungry, you usually are,_

_But from you I am much too far._

_I hope these scones will do you well,_

_They're made fresh, as you can tell._

"From you I am much too far? What does he mean by that?" Mrs. Hudson interrupted Sherlock's conversation. He looked up in surprise, most likely because he had forgotten she was there.

"He's probably just some distant fan of mine. A fully researched fan of mine. You know the stories in the paper, exaggerating my cases throughout Britain."

"Yes… John was good at giving everyone the real story…" Sherlock gazed sharply at her from his perch. She hushed the subject immediately. "If you need me, just give me a shout. Oh, but not too loud. The neighbors are on edge a lot lately, what with you talking so loud at night. Who are you talking to, anyways?"

"No one." She left Sherlock alone, his eyes rolling.

* * *

**Wow I'm so sorry for how bad these rhymes have gotten. I'll try to do better.**

**Do you think Sherlock is figuring it out? (More importantly...are you?)**


	8. On the 8th Day of Christmas

"I guess your phantom hasn't lost his mind after all, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson beamed at the detective slumped over the kitchen table. He jolted up and rubbed his eyes.

"Did you fall asleep over you work?" Mrs. Hudson scolded. "You really should sleep in your bed, Sherlock. Or at least the couch. You could get awfully sore."

"It's fine. What is it?" Sherlock looked at the basket his landlady was holding out for him. It was similar to the one he had received the day before, but was much smaller.

Sherlock accepted it and peeked inside. "Tea?"

"Like you said yesterday, it's simply deplorable to make scones without tea." She looked at the basket of scones in the living room, still untouched. "I see you can have a proper breakfast this morning."

Sherlock nodded, retrieving one of the eight tea bags from the basket. Mrs. Hudson read him the note that had stuck out of the top of his eighth present.

_Oh, how awfully rude of me!_

_I've gone and forgot the tea! _

_It was dreadful, I must say,_

_For me to treat you in this way._

"Well, at least he's got some manners." Sherlock mumbled, starting on his scone.

"Have you noticed?" Mrs. Hudson pointed out, "All of these funny little notes are on the same type of paper? And with the same pen and handwriting?"

"Obviously."

"Well, is that significant?"

"It's nothing of huge importance. It's common for one to have a favored writing utensil and almost identical lettering when writing. Although on the same paper…of that sort…"

"Yes?"

"They must have not had anything else to write on. It's not a commonly used paper…Oh!" Sherlock gasped, almost dropping his fresh tea. "Of course! It must have all been planned ahead of time. This person must have simply used whatever paper was near them and wrote out the notes ahead of time. Or… perhaps that was just intended to throw me off…"

"There you go, see? You're getting somewhere. I'll leave you to it." Mrs. Hudson hesitated for a moment before she walked out the door. "And eat your breakfast, you skinny thing!"

* * *

**There, that rhyme was a little better. c: **

**Any more guesses? I'm enjoying see all your Sherlockian brains at work, I hope you are too!**


	9. On the 9th Day of Christmas

"Is this a bloody joke?!" Sherlock barked. Mrs. Hudson was laughing hysterically in the chair across from Sherlock. She was laughing so hard that tears were beginning to form in her eyes.

"It's a good one." She laughed all the more.

"It isn't funny, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock crossed his arms and curled into himself in his chair. All around them were nine deerstalker hats strewn about.

Mrs. Hudson sighed, still chuckling. "I thought it was. Read what he said with it."

Sherlock scowled, but held up the note.

"_They remembered the hat, not the name_

_Even though it brought you shame. _

_This hat is what led you to fame,_

_With or without your own distain."_

"You have to admit, it's sort of funny." Mrs. Hudson chuckled again.

Sherlock glared and sipped his tea. The leaves from the tea he had gotten the day before were exquisite. He only had three left out of the eight he received.

"I hardly think," Sherlock replied coldly. "That the subject of these wretched hats are even mildly humorous."

Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat. "Well, I think it was meant to make you laugh, if only for a second." Sherlock scoffed and strode to his couch.

"Christmas is almost here," Mrs. Hudson continued. "Did you have any plans?"

"Plans?"

"Yes."

"Why would I have plans? I only have plans when there are murders about." Sherlock stretched himself out on the couch.

Mrs. Hudson frowned. "You do need a laugh…" She rose and went into the kitchen to clean out Sherlock's fridge.

Sherlock thought about that. He only laughed in John's company. But he had been gone for so long… _Maybe…_ Sherlock wondered, staring at bland ceiling above him.

* * *

**I hope you all are enjoying this story as much as I am. **

**..I have a confession... I haven't written the last chapter yet! D: **

**That's what happens when I procrastinate on things i actually _want _to do. Well...I suppose I should get on that?**


	10. On the 10th Day of Christmas

Mrs. Hudson stopped short in her own flat. Was that music? Definitely. She would know the sound of Sherlock's violin anywhere. Its sweet strings were playing a wonderful tune. A…happy tune? Mrs. Hudson dropped her dishrag and ran up the stairs to 221B.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson popped her head in the door way. Sherlock was standing at the window, violin at his chin. His arms were poised perfectly as he dragged the new bow across his violin's tight strings. Sherlock turned when Mrs. Hudson interrupted his playing. "Oh, do keep playing, it's lovely."

Mrs. Hudson sat in John's chair and watched Sherlock as he continued his beautiful tune. She was delighted. Sherlock hadn't been happy since John was away and he had only played less upbeat tunes. She had often been disappointed when she heard such a beautiful instrument making unhappy melodies. It was meant to make merry.

"Wonderful, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said, opening her eyes as the tune came to a close. He thanked her and rummaged through the pile of sheet music on his chair.

"What's all that?" she inquired. "I thought you'd put all your music away."

"I did. These are new."

"No wonder I hadn't recognized the tune…" Mrs. Hudson collected. "Wait a minute where did you get new music? Did you go out?"

"No," Sherlock laughed. "It's the tenth gift. Ten new sheets of music. Ten new songs to play."

"That's wonderful! Can I see the uh-"

Sherlock nodded towards the table. Mrs. Hudson retrieved yet another note.

_Oh, damn it, just like the scone_

_I gave you the bows all alone._

_So here is your other "tea",_

_Pick up your violin and play for me._

Mrs. Hudson smiled and glanced up at the musician. Sherlock had already picked up another sheet of music and propped it up on the music stand beside him. He began the next song and Mrs. Hudson closed her eyes again.

Sherlock didn't have much to say, but that didn't matter. The music said it all.

* * *

**Sherlock did say much...music said it all...music was happy...*nudge nudge* **

**(if you didn't catch that)**

**Wow i just can't get the right feel for the last chapter D: I hope the thoughts come out before the due date..**

**Either way, ARE YOU EXCITED FOR IT?!**


	11. On the 11th Day of Christmas

Sherlock heaved a large box up the stairs to his apartment. Mrs. Hudson followed the commotion.

"What could he possibly give eleven of?" Mrs. Hudson grumbled.

"Let's find out, shall we?" Sherlock said, opening the box he had set on the couch. Sherlock stifled a snicker as he pulled out the first of the eleven. It was a book.

"What is it?" Mrs. Hudson.

"_The Encyclopedia of Murder and Mystery_," he looked back into the box. "An eleven volume set." Sherlock removed all of the encyclopedias from the box and laid them out on the table behind him.

"Read that note on the bottom of the box for me, would you Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock requested. Mrs. Hudson discovered the note and read it for him.

"_You probably already know all this,_

_But honestly, this is not a diss. _

_Enjoy some reading to keep you afloat,_

_Although they might be books you wrote."_

Sherlock smiled at Mrs. Hudson when she finished. Mrs. Hudson looked up at Sherlock.

"Well, have you figured it out yet?" she asked the detective.

"Who it is?" Sherlock sat in his chair with the first volume of the encyclopedias. "I am almost certain."

"Well, then? Spit it out!" Mrs. Hudson said impatiently.

"This person has to be close to me, they had to know what I needed or would see as a joke. It couldn't be a fan; fans wouldn't be so considerate or have the mind capacity to plan the whole thing out.

"The note was in a male's handwriting, but that is almost insignificant, considering one could easily get someone else to write it out for them. It can't be Lestrade, he was much too clueless when he delivered the cases last week."

Sherlock paused, collecting his own thoughts. "Most of the gifts are fairly open ended, anyone could have given them with a fair knowledge of my background. But with the cases and corpses…for those you would need a more intimate knowledge of Scotland Yard. You'd have to have been there often and be capable of pulling some strings. There are only two people in Scotland Yard who know and like me well enough to do all this. Lestrade, who we've already ruled out, and…"

"Yes?" Mrs. Hudson pushed.

Sherlock cracked open the first encyclopedia. "Molly Hooper."

* * *

**Now before those of you who were begging for it to be John stab me in the chest, please don't... ****Just hear it out for tomorrow :D**

**Wow it's Christmas Eve already. Seems weird to me. **

**Hope you all enjoy lovely times with friends/family over the next few days :3 I'll see you back here tomorrow for the finale!**


	12. On the 12th Day of Christmas

In a short time, 221B would be the busiest it had been in years. Mrs. Hudson had taken the liberty of organizing a little Christmas party in Sherlock's flat, much to his disapproval. Sherlock scowled in his chair, cuddling his violin. Socialization. The very thought of it made Sherlock repulse. Yet, here he was, stuck waiting for the inevitable.

"Come on, Mycroft, tell the story!" Mrs. Hudson urged Sherlock's brother. Mycroft smiled and would have continued if not for Sherlock's lack of manners.

"Boring!" Sherlock nearly yelled. "You've told this story much too often, and it got old half way through the first time."

Mycroft glared at his little brother. "Only because you stopped listening."

"As I often do when things become boring. What were you saying anyway?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. Sherlock continued, "When is Molly arriving?"

"I don't know, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson reminded him. "The party doesn't start for another ten minutes."

"That didn't seem to stop Mycroft from coming…" Sherlock mumbled.

"I can hear you," Mycroft huffed. "I'm not staying anyways."

"Oh, why not?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Who cares?" Sherlock snarled under his breath.

"Sherlock-" Mrs. Hudson began to scold him, but Mycroft interrupted, letting Sherlock's rudeness go unpunished.

"I have business to attend to."

"But it's Christmas! Don't you get a day off?"

"If only." Mycroft smiled dryly and glanced at his sour brother curled up in his chair, plucking at his violin's strings. "Don't have too much fun at the party, Sherlock." Mycroft waved at Mrs. Hudson and trotted down the stairs, into the soft snowfall outside.

Mrs. Hudson sighed. "Sherlock, must you always be so crude to Mycroft? He's your brother-"

"Archenemy-"

"Yes, yes I know." Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes and went back into the kitchen, where she had been before Mycroft had stopped by. "Why didn't you tell Mycroft about your Christmas Phantom?"

"He already knows, couldn't you tell? And if he didn't, what does it matter?"

"I was just wondering." Mrs. Hudson took a steaming roast out of the oven and glanced at the thermometer in it. "What if it was him?"

"It's not."

"But what if it wa-"

"It's not."

"You just said he knows, though!"

"He only knows because he keeps tabs on me. Mycroft has surveillance on any mail I send or receive. He probably reads it all, too…" Sherlock grimaced.

* * *

A knock in the doorway interrupted Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson's conversation.

"Oh, someone's early," Mrs. Hudson purred. Sherlock jolted his head up and met Molly Hooper's eyes. He jumped up from his chair and bolted towards Molly Hooper, nearly rammed their heads together.

"It was you. Why are you doing this? What's all this for?" Sherlock sounded the most frustrated he'd been all week.

"Sherlock!" A voice yelled from the kitchen. "Don't antagonize the poor girl."

Molly circled around Sherlock and inched into the flat. "I-What? What was me?"

"You're the Phantom!"

"Phantom? Like Phantom of the Opera…?"

"No, the Phantom! My Christmas Phantom! The gifts that keep on getting bigger every day along with annoying riddles. You seem like the poetry type!" Sherlock moved all around Molly, trying to confirm his loud accusations. Although, he himself didn't seem too sure of his desperate inferences.

"Sherlock, I'm not your… "Christmas Phantom"… Is that what you're calling him?" Molly chuckled.

"You know who it is then?" Sherlock eyeballed the lab assistant. Molly's eyes shined. "Ah…_you _were the person helping-him, did you say?"

Molly laughed quietly and reached into her coat pocket before drooping the coat over the arm of the couch. She handed Sherlock what she had pulled out. The last note, neatly folded.

"He told me to deliver this one tonight…" Molly checked the time on her phone. "Right now."

Sherlock gave Molly a puzzled look and opened the note. The final note. He cleared his throat and read it out loud.

"_Patient, patient you have been,_

_Though I am sure it's wearing thin._

_I hope you have enjoyed your gift_

_And that your boredom it did lift._

_What better way to reunite_

_From that hot and dreadful fight?_

_It's day twelve,-"_

A new voice emerged from the stairway, finishing the note with Sherlock.

"-_as you can see. _

_Twelve red roses to you…from me._"

Everyone's eyes shifted to the voice's origin in the stairwell. The next guest had arrived in the doorway. Molly chuckled again, holding her hand to her mouth. Sherlock stood paralyzed, still holding the trembling note in his hand.

"J-John?" Sherlock stuttered.

In the doorway stood John Watson in military uniform, holding a beautiful bouquet of a dozen crimson roses. John couldn't hold back a wide smile as he gazed into Sherlock's flabbergasted face.

"Hello, Sherlock." John greeted quietly. "Merry Christmas."

"Oh, John! What a lovely surprise," Mrs. Hudson hugged John warmly. "I'll get some tea going for us all." She walked back into the kitchen and put a kettle on the stove.

"But-but how?" Sherlock sputtered.

"You really can do anything with some help from people," John glanced over Molly who smiled back at him. "You should try talking with them once in a while."

Sherlock was still half in shock. "The old cases, how-"

"I know a few people who know a few people. Really, Sherlock, there's more to connections than your homeless network."

"The corpses-"

There was another knock at the door and Lestrade poked his head into the flat. "Am I late?"

"Shut up, Lestrade!" Sherlock yelled. Lestrade seemed somewhat offended, but slunk into the apartment without another word.

"Ah, yes. I trust they served a greater purpose in your hands? No offense, Molly."

"None taken," Molly replied.

"How did you-"

"Oh, come on, Sherlock." John rolled his eyes and gestured at Molly. "Use that thick head of yours. Molly works at the morgue."

"Bu-but you were gone…" Sherlock's voice cracked. "…for so long…" Sherlock bit his trembling lip. John rushed to his side and held his shoulders.

"Sherlock. I'm here." John looked into Sherlock's glazed blue eyes. "I've come home."

Molly and Lestrade moved slowly towards the kitchen to see what they could do to help Mrs. Hudson.

* * *

"Sherlock, are you hearing me?"

"So…" Sherlock managed. "You did all this…as a coming home present? To keep my mind at work?"

"You're always complaining about being bored. I thought the least I could do is keep your mind out of trouble. Why, don't you like it?"

Sherlock laughed nervously. "John I-"

"Did you?"

"I-it was perfect, John," Sherlock lowered his voice to a whisper. "Thank you."

John smiled. That was all he had wanted for Christmas. John held up the flowers to Sherlock, who accepted them, after glancing back at the kitchen to see if they were being watched.

"John?"

"Yes?"

He hesitated. "John, I-I missed you," Sherlock's chin trembled with emotion. "So much." A small tear crept from his eye and slid down his cheek.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock. To his surprise, Sherlock did the same for him. John smiled even more and soon had tears streaming down his own face. "I missed you too, Sherlock."

* * *

**PLOT TWIST. (or not) I fooled a lot of you. :D **

**Congrats to everyone who stuck with your John hypothesis. (i almost teared up writing this last chapter hehehe)**

**I'm so sorry for posting so late, was giving me hell and I couldn't get on to post it. But here it is!**

**This is my first sort of mystery fic, so let me know what you thought of it! Hope it was as much of a joy reading as it was for me writing it. I'm sort of sad it's over, but hey. If you want more just give me a follow :D**

**Happy whatever doesn't offend you! (Christmas...Yule...Holidays... Hanukkah...? idk) **


End file.
